


Eyes, Look Your Last

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bran speaks to her in dreams, dreams that feel realer than anything she's ever known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes, Look Your Last

He comes to her in dreams, dreams that feel realer than anything she’s ever known.   
  
She stands in thick woods, her eyes open; open, and staring into pools of blue-grey- a child’s gaze, but too knowing, too serious, too captivating. And then she falls in, drowning in cobalt, until she stands on the other side, looking back at herself. She takes a sniff of the air, and the scents are overwhelming- she smells the wind, the ground, the leaves...she swears she can smell the sky. Every sense feels magnified, until she’s sure that the stimuli will crush her fragile body into powder-  _is this what it’s like where you are, brother?_   
  
Sansa will usually find her way back into her own body before she wakes, and she’ll lie still for a time, settling back into herself, shaping Bran’s name with her lips (but never uttering it aloud- she’ll not be taken for a madwoman). The experience is jarring, but somehow she never feels frightened- wherever her brother takes her in that twilight realm between sleep and waking, she feels comforted by his surety, soothed by his presence.   
  
But there will be no comfort for Sansa tonight.   
  
She wakes in the earliest hours of the morning, when the sky is at its darkest. A cold, clammy sweat slicks her skin, and she shivers so violently that she fears she’ll snap her bones in two. Eyes open wide as she stares at the ceiling- she fears to close them, for what she’s seen sickens her, chills her to the core-   
  
_Bran’s body, small and slight, tumbling from the tower window. His descent slows, and she can feel the texture of the air as his limbs push through. She looks up through his eyes, his lovely grey-blue eyes, and she’s blinded by gold and green- a flash so beautiful and so, so terrible that she wants to scream. But there’s no sound, just the grotesque stretching of her mouth as she-he-they plummet down and down and down, shattering on the ground like a clay pot, limbs splaying and bones cracking-_   
  
Her heart pounds in her ears, painful and loud, and as she retrieves her breath, she lets the dream sink into her brain.    
  
Bran talks to her in these dreams- she’s absolutely convinced of that. And what he’s told her tonight-   
  
Sansa’s throat feels swollen, and she lifts her shoulders from the pillow in an effort to gasp for air. Her mind pushes the knowledge away-  _I don’t want it, it can’t be....  
  
Bran broken on the ground, Bran who never falters, never falls- gold and green and where were the Lannisters that afternoon?  
  
Forgive me, Bran, I didn’t know..._   
  
She turns her head- it suddenly feels excruciatingly heavy, as though it’s carved from stone- and stares at the sleeping body of her lover. Jaime’s chest rises and falls with steady breaths-  _how does he sleep? How can he sleep?_  Only the slightest trace of moonlight trickles in through the window, barely limning his figure with silver. She leans over him, her gaze boring into his still, peaceful face.    
  
The side of her arm brushes him, and he pulls her close, nuzzling his face into her neck with a satisfied yawn. His seed still stains her inner thighs, her breasts still tingle from the rub of his beard. She lets him touch her as her mind swirls and swirls and churns and churns...her blood boils, every nerve as alive as they are in her Bran-dreams. She feels time slow to a crawl as the heat rushing through her veins hardens the walls, turning them to steel.    
  
_The North remembers_ , Bran’s voice whispers- her anger and shame cluster together, forming a hard knot of purpose at her center.   
  
She carefully unwraps herself from Jaime’s arms and leans over him to reach the table beside the bed. Her hand closes around the little dagger, the dagger he’d procured for her, the dagger he insists that she keep at her side always. She moves to straddle his hips- he smiles in his sleep, his hand tracing the curve of her waist. Sansa feels a brush of smoothness on her other side, and she feels a stinging pang when she notices the golden hand sitting on the bedside table.    
  
The blade gleams bright in the dim light when she pulls it from its sheath- her heart still thumps loud as a drumbeat, but Jaime sleeps too soundly to wake. It was not always so- she can remember fitful nights of thrashing and muttering in the not-so-distant past- but he is comfortable with her now. Trusting.    
  
Her hand trembles, and she falters. Hot tears sting her eyes, but she closes them tight until she sees Bran’s face, Bran’s prone body on the ground, her precious little brother who exists now only in her dreams...   
  
_The North remembers._   
  
She thinks at first to slash the knife across his throat as he sleeps- but no. She finds that she wants him awake, wants to stare into the eyes that were the last thing her brother saw before his fall. She’ll look him in the face when the moment comes (a tiny voice chirps in her ear-  _You owe him that much_ ).   
  
The tip of the knife grazes the skin of his throat, but it is not enough to rouse him. Driven by impulse, Sansa leans forward and kisses him, kisses him once more, lips soft and sweet and warm.   
  
And then a bite on his lower lip, a fluttering of pale-tipped lashes, and she holds her breath.   
  
Green eyes open, framed by wayward licks of golden hair, and she makes her choice.   



End file.
